The one survivor
by Switchblade
Summary: A single survivor aids his comrades


"Repeat! This is the Karnegian twenty-second, first division, we are pinned down by enemy fire! Grid co-ordinates."  
  
the vox officer whose voice I'm hearing stops for a second, and the microbead comm headset in my ear plays nothing but static for a few moments while he, presumably, checks a map.  
  
"Grid Co-ordinates nine-nine-five by four-three-one. All imperial forces, please respond"  
  
Still, at least the fools have the sense to get attacked somewhere close by. If it wasn't for the constant flood of white noise coming through the headset, I probably would have heard the las-fire. I deactivate the communications device, and fold it back up into my helmet. With the deafening background noise removed, I can hear the distant shooting and screaming. I already know which way to go, but force of habit makes me double-check that knowledge with what my ears tell me. Having confirmed it, I begin moving again, slipping quickly but silently through the undergrowth, probably without making any noise, and barely a ripple in the foliage to mark my passage.  
  
It strikes me as odd, really, that somebody born in the confines of a hive city could have developed such a talent for moving stealthily through the woods. Where others from Vorex V would step on every dry twig in a half- kilometre radius, I can almost float through the trees like a wraith, the brown and green camo pattern on the cloak I was issued when we arrived blending well with the dappled light that filters through the upper foliage of the Goliath trees. The undergrowth is a gloomy place, a place of warm green shadows, only penetrated by near-vertical columns of the soft yellow sunlight of this place. Sergeant Kravitz used to complain every minute he was here that the air couldn't possibly be clean, smelling like that, and most of the others from my platoon would have complained about the humidity and the brightness.  
  
Myself, I quite like this place. The forest world of Ludon's Reach has a natural beauty that far outstrips the hydroponics farm I used to work in back in the hive. Admittedly, it's a war-torn beauty that has been damaged by the smoke that rises from burning market towns, and the pollution of tanks and aircraft, but its still a damn sight better looking than that hulking mountain of corroded duraminium and ferrocrete that I used to call home.  
  
The combat is now in sight. Those aliens, the ones the Colonel called "Tau" have laid a textbook perfect ambush along the major road between Mornarr City and Fort Russ. Mornarr, to judge by the comm traffic and the pillar of smoke that stabs into the sky like a great black finger, recently fell to the blue-skinned xenos, which means that the forces of our gloried Emperor are fighting a running battle in their retreat to Fort Russ. If the fort falls, then we've essentially lost the planet, and I'll be damned before I let some filthy aliens take over a domain that is rightfully the Emperor's!  
  
Amongst the natural greens of the forest, the pastel orange armour these Tau soldiers wear is very obvious. To give them credit, they are very efficient, well-schooled on all manner tactics. Better so than some officers I have known in fact. Certainly better than that skag-brained general whose idea of a surgical military operation is to throw four regiments at an enemy stronghold and pray that they can get past the guns. If I ever find out who he is, I'll beat him to death with his swagger stick and buy drinks for the firing squad.  
  
Of course, if I work really hard, I might get elevated from the ranks and become an officer. Then I could call him out and gut the bastard like the brainless pig he is and nobody could touch me for it. I have just the weapon to do it with, too, and I draw it now. Lieutenant Aston's power sword. the Lieutenant was a nice guy, definitely one who would have been promoted, I think. A missile can certainly ruin a man's career, not to mention the rest of him. I touch the triple stripes on my arm for good luck. Technically, I'm not a sergeant, but I figure that I may just about have earned it, having survived the siege of Fort Macharius, and spent the last month Sowing confusion and death among the Tau with little commando raids.  
  
The guardsmen are gathered in the middle of the road in a huddle I think of as the "last stand". These Karnegians, whoever they are, are well-trained, as they're laying down a superbly disciplined volley of fire. Its keeping the Tau heads down at least, which is probably the reason they're still alive. A Tau pulse rifle can blow a hole straight through one man and kill the one behind him as well, I've seen it happen. If the guardsmen hadn't been quick on their feet and gotten into a decent fire drill early on, they would have been wiped out very quickly.  
  
With the Tau's attention fixed firmly on the fire fight, I can choose my moment, but I don't waste any time. I sprint from the shadows, leap into the air, and bring the sword down, point-first, on the domed top of one of the orange helmets. The Tau inside the armour spasms and dies as my blade, a corona of disruptive energies flickering about it, punches straight through him, disintegrating anything that gets in the way. I yank my weapon free, and blast my victim's neighbour point-blank with the bolt pistol I took from Lieutenant Aston's body. His head flies apart in a shower of blood that's more purple than red. The Tau to my left raises his rifle to fire at me, but my sword sheers the end off, and what would have been a lethal blast of scalding energy is more like a hot blue breeze. I barely notice it as I haul the sword back around and ram it through the collection of lenses that adorns the front of the alien's helmet.  
  
As a rule, the Tau seem to prefer shooting to actual down-and-dirty hand to hand stuff, which means that a screaming human maniac in their midst with a bolt pistol and a power sword can do a lot of damage. I hack down maybe fifteen Tau before my comrades register what's happening. After another five have been dispatched, I hear a foghorn bellow of a voice raised in inspirational command. That voice could only belong to a commissar.  
  
"Up! Up, men of the Emperor and charge!" As one man, the whole platoon surges forward, some still firing their lasguns, others fixing bayonets as they run, others preparing combat knives and pistols.  
  
If one man could do a lot of damage, fifty just wipe the Tau away. A few are pitched to the floor by pulse rounds as the charge storms in, but there's no cover to exploit in a close combat, and the Tau are quickly taken care of. As the sounds of fighting fade, the commissar turns towards me, wiping purplish blood from the ornate, basket-hilted rapier that he was using. Without thinking, I salute, stamping my boots into the thickening mix of mud and blood around my ankles. Automatically, my eyes focus on an invisible object in the far distance.  
  
"Name and rank?" he asks. He's a commissar, all right. I've just saved his life and he doesn't treat me any different.  
  
"Krantz, Sergeant. Vorex eighteenth, sir!" I reply. Parade ground perfect, despite the mud, blood and unwashed, unshaven face.  
  
"Good work, Sergeant." The commissar says. "Well done." 


End file.
